Sometimes
by AndHoneyYouShouldSeeMeInACrown
Summary: A collection of memories that John has of Sherlock and their time spent together. Not Slash.
1. Grief

Sometimes, when I think about grief and loss and desperation, I think about how different people react to it in different ways. Some people throw themselves into their work and pretend that actually, everything is ok. Some people just eat, and eat, and eat. Some people can't concentrate. Others pretend like nothing has happened.

I always thought that I'd be one of those people who moved on fairly quickly, regaining my hold on reality and getting on with life. That of course, was before I met him - the greatest man I have ever known. The one man who understood me, who listened, and accepted me for who I was; who protected me, trusted me – who was my best friend.

But now he's gone. He ended it all in a heartbeat so that he could die on his own terms. So that no matter what happened, Moriarty couldn't win.

And now I'm alone. One man in a world of people who all believe that my best friend was a fraud –a world where almost everyone believes that, to satisfy some strange desire to prove he was clever, he kidnapped and murdered hundreds of people and hired an actor to play his "arch enemy".

And so, after 18 months of friendship and a 5 second fall, all my views on grief and loss and desperation have changed. I feel empty – everything is dark and there is no light at the end of the tunnel. I can't move on, not only because i don't want to, but because I can't. Wherever I go I see reminders of him – a long coat, someone with dark curls, a street where we chased a murderer or poster declaring "I believe in Sherlock Holmes".

It hurts. It always hurts. And I think it always will.


	2. Noise

Sometimes, I think about how many times I considered moving out of 221b Baker Street. There was only so much I could take. I'd spend an idle shift at the surgery thinking about how much I hated his mess, his noise at all hours, his constant berating of my intelligence and his baffling attraction to danger.

He was the kind of man who would do things on impulse – not stopping to think about those people around him. It was a common occurrence to be woken up at 3 in the morning by an incessant scratching at the violin – how that noise ever helped him think is a mystery to me. It was the kind of noise that you couldn't ignore, that would make any _normal_ person incapable of concentrating. But not Sherlock.

He insisted that this frustrating habit made his life easier – that it allowed his brain to work faster and see things that he would not have seen otherwise.

One morning, the 5th morning in row that I'd been woken by his noise, I made a decision that that was it. I was going. Nothing was going to stop me. I packed a bag and stormed downstairs; I didn't intend to say anything to Sherlock – when he was "playing" there was no disturbing him, no reasoning with him. I was just going to walk away, stay at Sarah's and sort myself out.

It wasn't going to be that easy though, I should have seen that at the time. Half way to the front door I realised that I'd left my phone on the table next to my chair in the front room, next to the place where Sherlock was stood scratching away at the violin.

I climbed back up the stairs, pausing at the door – he was stood in the window staring outside, violin perched under his chin, long thin fingers plucking away at the strings. Perhaps, if I was quick, I could get it without him noticing and be gone – no questions asked.

"John, why are you stood in the doorway?" He turned around and faced me, blue eyes piercing mine as he stared at me waiting for a reply. When I didn't say anything he spoke again, "And what on Earth was all that noise just then? You do realise I am trying to concentrate on the case?"

"And you do realise that i was trying to sleep?" I shot back at him.

"Dull."

"Dull? Dull? Normal people need to sleep Sherlock. I need to sleep, I have to be at the surgery at 7 and take a 10 hour shift – because normal people have to work, to pay the bills, and the rent and buy food. Which reminds me – you need to pay your half of the rent tomorrow, I'm not paying it again. As for that bloody violin, I am this close to throwing it out of the window."

"You can't do that"

"Yes I can, and I will."

With that he brandished the violin and started to batter the strings with the bow, not taking his eyes off me; trying, I assume, to prove a point. With that I turned on my heel and walked out – left him to his own devices. If he wanted to be a prick, then he could deal with the consequences. No one to pay his rent, to cook him food, to keep him safe.

I returned of course, 3 days later – it took Mycroft and Lestrade to convince me that it was the best thing to do, that I was the only person that could control Sherlock, the only person that could keep him alive.

Now when I think about how many times I considered moving out of 221b Baker Street I think about how childish it all was; I think about how much I loved his mess, his noise at all hours, his constant berating of my intelligence and his baffling attraction to danger.

And it hurts. It always hurts. And I think it always will.


	3. Chocolate

Sometimes, when Sherlock had a case and refused me any time to eat or sleep, when my energy levels were low and we could be off on a chase at any moment; I would live on chocolate. It was, I discovered, the only way for me to keep going without killing Sherlock in the process. I guess, that in a way it kept me sane.

Sherlock of course, didn't approve. According to him, chocolate was unnecessary and could, among other things cause addiction, headaches and obesity. Sherlock's main issue with it though, was the happiness it could make you feel. To him, the momentary euphoria that most people feel when they eat chocolate was an unwanted emotion that in his opinion could only lead to disaster.

To me, all chocolate was, was a tasty snack. So, when a few weeks after hearing Sherlock's view on chocolate, we were case free, I made it my mission to make him try some – I was determined to change his mind. The experiment however, proved to be a mistake.

After spending several hours trying to convince him that trying chocolate would be an incredibly beneficial experiment to perform; he caved. The result of which was an extremely hyper Sherlock who ran around the flat, trying to conduct experiments that resulted in the loss of several tea towels, 7 test tubes and a mug. It took me 4 hours of chasing him around the flat to manage to get him to sit down and even then he wasn't just going to sit quietly.

"John, I've changed my mind – I've decided I do in fact quite like chocolate and now I want some more."

"I don't think that's a good idea Sherlock…"

"Please John, I want some more."

"We have none left. You ate the last bar"

"John, lovely, lovely kind John. I want some more chocolate. I need some, get me some."

"Sherlock, there is no way you are having any more sugar in the foreseeable future. Actually, you're not having anything high in sugar ever again."

The tantrum that ensued resembled that of a toddler who wasn't allowed an ice cream. He kicked and screamed – even faking a few tears to try and make me feel sorry for him. Eventually he gave up and laid on the sofa sulking.

He didn't speak to me for 3 days – refusing to eat or drink anything. It was only when another case came along and he required my help again that he forgot all about it and carried on with life as normal.

These days, I'd give anything to be on a case with Sherlock again – even if it meant being refused food or sleep. I wouldn't complain, I wouldn't rely on chocolate – I'd simply revel in the fact that we were together again. I realise now that I don't need chocolate to keep me sane, I need Sherlock.

It hurts. It always hurts. And I think it always will.


	4. Shadow

**Thankyou to my awesome friend Rosie for all the prompts.. if anyone else has any ideas then PM me.**

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><p>Sometimes I see Sherlock in the shadows. I know, of course, that it's not him - that it can't be him. I know that what I see is my mind just showing me what I want to see. A shadow of a great man haunting my every thought and action; following me and making sure I never forget.<p>

But how could I? How could I ever forget a man who changed my life in so many ways? I think a part of me used to live through him; and now that part of me has no purpose it spends it time taunting me with images of a man who I know cannot be there.

When I first met him I didn't know what to think; when he summoned me to Baker Street with a simple text, all I could think about was how odd it all seemed - a stranger requesting my presence – a psychopathic stranger. I often wondered what on Earth possessed me to walk back in there; I knew then that it would only lead to trouble. And what were the words that convinced me?

"Could be dangerous. SH"

It says a lot for my character and a lot for his. He knew from the very instant that we met how to make me do what he wanted – and I knew from the same instant that I'd do what he wanted in a heartbeat. He made me a better person and now he's gone I'm only a shadow of the man he made me.

It hurts. It always hurts. And I think it always will.


End file.
